


marbles on glass

by swapcats



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/F, pre-exile, pre-melting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:05:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3200039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swapcats/pseuds/swapcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>    	“My family is the backbone of Noxus,” Katarina says proudly, and she isn't wrong.</p><p>    	Riven leans against the bench's backrest, looks plainly at Katarina, and says, “And I serve the heart and brain and lungs.”</p><p>    	Katarina gives up on extended pulpy-organ metaphors and lapses back into silence. The heat from their fight is fast fading and Riven's stomach begins to grumble. She becomes aware of the bitter wind on her skin again, the way her cuts sting, and at some point, she thinks that maybe, Katarina just needs a friend in her own, twisted way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	marbles on glass

**Author's Note:**

> I got to thinking about Riven's characterisation before a whole bunch of Bad Stuff happened, and how her interactions with Katarina might've been, once upon a time. Here's the result!

     Even in the dead of winter, Noxus' snowfall is underwhelming at best. 

     Riven's boots crunch against the fresh inch that has fallen since sundown; it's probably some sort of record. She steps between patches of shadow and light as she finishes up her patrol of the base, well aware that she's being followed.

     It doesn't catch her by surprise. As best as she can tell, it's been going on for the last fortnight. One thing's for certain, though: her newly-appointed shadow is _good_ at what they do. Riven makes an abrupt stop and her stalker doesn't falter. There are no unaccounted footsteps behind her, no crunch of the snow. They predict her every move perfectly. 

     Riven has her fun. She doubles-back, but the only footprints in the powder are her own. She waves her torch around, spearing light into the shadows, and all without looking paranoid. She's on patrol, after all. Jumping at shadows is part of the job. 

     She doesn't try too hard. She doesn't wander too far from her designated route. The snowfall might be nothing to boast of, but it _is_ cold, and her military-issue jacket isn't doing anything to stop the bitter night air making her joints ache. Pulling scarf over her nose and mouth, Riven idly scopes the area for her new biggest fan and heads back inside.

     She exchanges a few gruff, routine words with the soldier taking over the patrol from her, assures him there's nothing to worry about, and makes her way to her quarters. It's a shoebox of a room with little more than a rackety bed frame and a wiry mattress overshadowed by a locker the size of a coffin, but it's all _hers_. A decade of loyal service and she no longer has to worry about a bunkmate who can't make their bed properly.

     Plus, not every room has its own sink. That's a real bonus.

     Riven wanders through the dimly lit base, past the dormitories, and finds a door with 326 stencilled on top of the peeling green paint. She fishes her key out of her back pocket, glances down at the doorknob and frowns. Someone's broken in. She always twists the handle to the left, so that a scratch on the metal lines up with a particularly distinct paint chip, but it's currently in its default position. 

     With a half-hearted shrug, she slips the key in and heads inside. Whoever's been following her has had plenty of opportunities to kill her and she hasn't pissed off anyone particularly important of late, so this isn't an assassination attempt.

     Probably.

     Showing no caution, she barges in. There is, indeed, someone there. Not just someone, she realises: the General's daughter.

     Riven wonders to what she owes the pleasure but doesn't give her intruder the satisfaction of any kind of outburst, laced with fear or anger or otherwise. She sits heavily on the edge of her bed and begins unlacing her boots.

     Katarina Du Couteau stares at her, eyes wide.

     “Yes?” Riven says, glancing up.

     “I—” Katarina begins, brow furrowed. She frowns, incredulous and self-righteous all at once. Not the reception she was expecting, Riven thinks. “Do you know who I am?”

     Riven pulls a boot off, sock half-escaping along with it. 

     She's never seen Katarina this close up before, though word of her spreads through the base like wildfire. She's younger than Riven had been led to believe by all the tales of her exploits; she can't be much more than a year or two out of her teens. 

     “Katarina Du Couteau. The General's daughter,” Riven answers at her leisure. “Arguably the best assassin in the Noxian forces.”

     Riven isn't certain she's ever seen someone so comically flabbergasted before. Katarina looks as though she'd be a dozen times less offended if Riven _hadn't_ been well aware of who she was.

     Using the toes of her left foot to ease her right boot off, Riven stands, pushes past Katarina, and puts her boots in their rightful place at the bottom of her locker.

     “— _arguably_?” Katarina eventually manages.

     “People need something to argue about in the mess hall,” Riven explains with a shrug, slumping back onto her bed. “Are you going to tell me why you've been following me for two weeks?”

     Katarina narrows her gaze and grins, expression as sharp as those blades she's famed for.

     “The last _three_ weeks,” she says, taking her victories where she can.

     Great, Riven thinks. Creepy.

     Maybe all those unsavoury rumours about the Du Couteau family aren't entirely unfounded.

     “Well?” Riven asks. Katarina stares at her blankly. “Why have you been following me? Why did you break into my quarters?” 

     “I—”

     Katarina has no answer for her. She clicks her tongue and shakes her head as though she doesn't have time for Riven's games, then marches from the room with her head held high.

     The door slams shut behind her. Riven gives it a minute, then pulls the bolt across. She's due up at dawn tomorrow: she doesn't have time to figure out what any of that is supposed to mean.

*

     If Katarina's still following her, she's being more careful about it. Either that, or Riven's decided that keeping an eye out for her isn't worth the effort.

     It's a week before she has the pleasure of seeing her again. Riven's training after hours, dragging her ridiculous sword around an empty courtyard. One of the base's spotlights illuminates half the area, but there isn't another soul around. As loyal and dedicated to Noxus as her comrades are, late night training sessions are far from mandatory, and there's a bar half a mile east of the base. 

     Riven lifts her sword over her head with both hands, feeling the strain stretch out between her shoulder and elbow, highlighting the curves of her muscles. One moment she's alone; the next, Katarina's silhouette stands out dramatically against the snow.

     Riven rolls her eyes.

     “Wondered when you'd be back,” she says, slicing horizontally through the air.

     She could've cut through three people with that move, no problems.

     Katarina slowly makes her way over. She's more confident, this time. Convinced she can take control of the situation.

     “You're good,” Katarina says, slowly circling Riven. Riven wonders if her station is supposed to add weight to her words, but she's heard it a hundred times from countless commanding officers. When Riven's gratitude doesn't come rushing out, Katarina says, “We're going to spar.”

     Her knives are already out.

     “Knives against a sword?” Riven asks. “That's a little unbalanced.”

     “If you expect balance on the battlefield, then you're a fool,” Katarina chides.

     A little heavy-handed, but Riven's willing to give her that one. She relents, falls into stance and readies her blade. After all she's heard about Katarina and what those knives of hers are capable of, she can't deny her curiosity. Deep down in Riven's gut, embers of excitement begin to burn: it's been too long since she faced a real challenge.

     Katarina doesn't disappoint. Riven might've caught her off-guard by not being bothered by her intrusion, but Katarina's blades don't know hesitation or doubt. They slice the air, forcing Riven back, and her knives fight off the strength of Riven's sword with their speed. Katarina's eyes flash as she fights, and her every move is made with deliberate ease. _This_ is the Katarina Riven's heard about. Riven grins, parries Katarina's next strike, and plants a boot against her stomach, knocking her back.

     They go on for half an hour. If they weren't sparring, one or both of them would've been dead within minutes. Shallow cuts line Riven's arms; it's Katarina's way of reminding her she could press her blades to the bone, if she wanted to. Already, Riven feels bruises blossoming across her ribs, and makes sure to repay Katarina in kind.

     Finally, _finally_ , Riven spots an opening. She swings her sword, forcing Katarina to block with both blades, but before she can push her to the ground, Katarina's foot snakes around the back of her ankle. A second later and Riven's flat on her back with Katarina standing over her, ready to gloat.

     “Well fought,” Katarina begins, slipping her knives back into her belt.

     She holds out her hand as though the match is over. 

     Riven doesn't trust her for a second.

     Abandoning her sword, she lunges forward, catching Katarina around the waist. She tackles her to the hard ground, right not to have taken Katarina's hand. There was a blade hidden up her sleeve, and as Katarina's red hair fans out in the snow, Riven's hand at her throat is all for nothing; metal presses against her own neck.

     “Yeah,” Riven agrees, very slowly loosening her hold on Katarina's throat and climbing off her. “Not bad.”

     The point of Katarina's knife follows Riven as she rises to her feet. She holds up her hands, showing she has no desire to fight any longer. Her shoulders slump and she turns her back to Katarina as she heads towards a bench along the side of the court.

     They sit together, talking. There isn't much to see, this late at night; the night sky is heavy with clouds, and the closest thing they have to stars are the lights flickering on and off across the base, the spotlights sweeping back and forth.

     “Did you come to my quarters to try seducing me?” Riven asks, and Katarina starts next to her. “Come on. If you were following me because you were interested in sparring, you would've approached me weeks ago.”

     Katarina glowers. Riven's convinced she's on the urge of spluttering out an indignant _Do you know who I am—!?_ again. She clearly isn't used to not getting her own way.

     “Does that actually _work_?” Riven continues.

     Katarina huffs and tilts her chin towards the night sky.

     “... usually,” she says, voice laced with a hint of defensive pride.

     Riven laughs dryly. Five, ten years ago, she might've been taken in by it all. The General's daughter, picking out her, a lowly soldier, from the hundreds on base. There's power in that, but Riven knows better now.

     “Here's a tip,” she says, “Stalking people isn't flattering _or_ healthy.”

     “... I have to spend the next six months on base. What else am I supposed to do for entertainment?”

     Riven blinks heavily, staring at Katarina. She's not joking, so far as Riven can tell. Dear god. The General instilled a strange set of values in her.

     “Poor Princess,” Riven eventually says.

     “Show some _respect_ ,” Katarina snaps. “You joined the military for a reason, didn't you?”

     “I joined to serve Noxus. Not your family.”

     “My family is the backbone of Noxus,” Katarina says proudly, and she isn't wrong.

     Riven leans against the bench's backrest, looks plainly at Katarina, and says, “And I serve the heart and brain and lungs.”

     Katarina gives up on extended pulpy-organ metaphors and lapses back into silence. The heat from their fight is fast fading and Riven's stomach begins to grumble. She becomes aware of the bitter wind on her skin again, the way her cuts sting, and at some point, she thinks that maybe, Katarina just needs a friend in her own, twisted way.

     “Come on,” she says, getting to her feet and tugging on Katarina's arm. “Mess hall's still open.”

     Katarina snatches her arm back but doesn't protest with anything more than a glare.

*

     They start sparring together, and Katarina occasionally joins her on her patrols. Katarina begrudgingly agrees not to break into her quarters again, and when she comes over, a roll of her eyes accompanies a impatient knock. She spends her time there pacing what floor space there is to pace, complaining about things that go entirely over Riven's head. Rich people problems, she assumes.

     People on base begin to talk. They throw questions Riven's way over their bland breakfasts, and Riven doesn't care enough to answer anyone. Let them think what they like. She's just glad to finally have someone challenging to train with.

     Katarina vanishes for two weeks, for undisclosed reasons. Like everyone on base, Riven's well aware that she's off assassinating someone or another for the glory of Noxus. When she hears rumours of Katarina's return but doesn't see her around for two entire days, Riven decides there's nothing for it but to seek her out.

     It isn't as difficult as she expected to get into the towering building that houses the Du Couteaus, when they're on base. Riven is in good standing with most of her superior officers, and has garnered respect over the decade she's been serving. A few words about paperwork needing to be signed at the front gates and she's allowed to slip through. She sticks to the stairs, cautiously peers around corners, and avoids any wandering guards as she makes her way up to Katarina's floor.

     She knocks on the door. No answer. She looks around at all the luxuries surrounding her: thick, fluffy carpet beneath her boots, actual wallpaper lining the walls, bright lights that aren't constantly flickering. Riven knocks again, to no avail.

     “Katarina,” she says sternly, impatient. If she lingers for much longer she's going to get caught.

     Luckily, the sound of her voice gets Katarina's attention. She answers the door, and Riven absolutely doesn't look over her shoulder, into the apartment. She has no desire to know all that she's missing out on.

     “What?” Katarina asks, looking utterly miserable.

     That's new. Usually, Katarina's wickedly delighted to see her.

     “We're going out,” Riven decides. “Put a hat on or something. People are going to recognise you.”

     Katarina stares at her, lips parting a little. 

     Riven waves a hand in front of her face and with a snarl, Katarina backs into her room, slamming the door behind her. Riven glances to her left and to her right. The coast is still clear. Two minutes later, Katarina resurfaces with her impossibly long hair pinned up and tucked away beneath a flat cap. She's wearing a thick coat with a high collar, and Riven supposes it'll do.

     For once, she isn't wearing her military gear and she's actually taking the evening off. The two of them march in silence through the crumbs of snow that remain, walking on the grassy verges along the side of the road, saying nothing until they reach the bar.

     Riven holds the door open for Katarina and watches her shoulders rise as she steps in.

     A ramble of noise floods out into the night. Snooker balls clink together and glasses meet sticky tabletops as a song Riven's never heard before but instantly learns the words to mingles with a tangle of conversation. It's as crowded inside as it's ever been: the bar's never had any need for heating of its own. The air reeks of smoke and booze, and Katarina crinkles her nose as Riven leads them to an opening along the bar.

     They bump elbows and shoulders with strangers, and then with each other. Katarina orders clear, expensive alcohol that comes in delicate glasses with ice cubes that chime together, and Riven orders her usual pint of whatever's on tap. 

     “What's wrong with you?” Riven asks, wrapping her fingers around her pint glass.

     Katarina brushes her off and knocks back half her drink.

     “Mission go wrong?” Riven tries.

     Katarina twists on her barstool, staring at Riven accusingly.

     “Calm down,” Riven says. “Everyone knows. _Top Secret_ doesn't mean much these days.”

     Katarina returns to her drink and idly pushes an ashtray away from her.

     “The mission went fine,” she says.

     “Then what's wrong? One day you're stalking me, the next you look like you'd rather be anywhere else.”

     Katarina lifts her drink but doesn't bring it to her lips. She places it back against its coaster – she's the only one in the bar using one – and holds her silence for another minute.

     “The target was younger than the mission statement led me to believe,” she eventually settles on.

     “Oh yeah? How young?”

     “Twelve.”

     Shit. Riven's no good at this, at the whole comforting thing. There's a brief blip in the cacophony of noise behind them as the song comes to an end, before something horribly upbeat kicks in. A few people cheer from the other end of the bar. Riven signals to the barkeeper and has another one of those fancy, potent drinks slid over to Katarina.

     “That sucks,” Riven offers awkwardly.

     Katarina nods. Riven gets her another drink, and then another.

     The conversation dries up immediately. If Katarina hadn't already downed so much alcohol, she'd offer to spar with her, to get the hurt and frustration she must be feeling out of her system. Instead, the best she can do is hope that being in a crowded bar does something to drown out the thoughts plaguing her, stealing away her focus.

     One of Riven's squad-mates catches sight of her and invites her to a game of darts. Riven asks Katarina if she wants to play; she doesn't. Riven tells her she's welcome to join them at any time and watches Katarina over her shoulder as she plays. She doesn't move, other than to bring her drink to her lips, and people seem to know better to bother her.

     Riven wins the game with ease. She shrugs off the offer of a rematch, returns to the bar, and gets herself another drink. A lifetime later, the bell rings for last orders, and Katarina heads for the bathroom. Riven watches as her feet decide to take the least direct route possible, and is ready to walk her home when she returns, hat askew. 

     The cold night air hits them, and Riven hopes it'll do Katarina a world of good. They walk side by side, overtaken by clusters of soldiers returning to base, and Riven knows it's not just the alcohol making the thought of heading back to her quarters a difficult one.

     Riven buries her hands in her pockets, desperately searching for something reassuring to say. It turns out there's no kind way to say _Sorry you had to murder a kid_. When Riven says nothing, Katarina speaks.

     “Sorry for stalking you that one time,” she says.

     That one time. All three weeks of that one time.

     “No you're not,” Riven says, nudging her with her elbow.

     “No, I'm not. Everyone else was _honoured_ to find _me_ in _their_ quarters,” Katarina says proudly, slurring out her emphasis.

     The corner of Riven's mouth tugs downwards, but she doesn't think it's the right moment to explain to Katarina that this isn't a predator/prey situation. They'll have to work on that another time.

     “Sure,” Riven says, grabbing Katarina's wrists. “It's your lucky night. I've changed my mind.”

     Katarina says something that makes absolutely no sense, and Riven drags her back to base, back to her quarters. She keeps a firm grip on Katarina's wrist as she fishes for her key – the scratch and paint chip are perfectly aligned, there's no cause for concern – and opens the door.

     “Do you really this this is appropriate?” Katarina asks, slumping against the wall. She blinks her eyes heavily, trying to get the room to stop warping around her.

     “Yep,” Riven says, moving to the sink. She turns on the cold tap, filling a glass to the brim. “You're upset – or pissed off, whatever you want to call it – and you don't want to go home. So you're going to drink this, sleep here, and not throw up on my floor.”

     Katarina's face softens in understanding. With her legs on the verge of betraying her, she sits on the edge of the bed and accepts the water when it's handed to her. After a moment, she takes off hat and begins unbuttoning her coat. Riven returns her boots to the locker, discards her pants, and digs out one of her spare blankets.

     She spreads the blanket across the corner of the room. It's not exactly going to be comfortable, but she's slept in worse places before. She waits until Katarina's free of her coat before killing the lights, and in the split second before darkness claims the room, Riven wonders how long it's been since somebody showed Katarina a paltry, genuine slither of kindness.

     Riven reaches blindly for the wall and settles down for the night. 

     Later, when Riven's on the verge of sleep, Katarina swallows her pride and mutters, “... thanks,” to the darkness.

     “Sure,” Riven says, yawning. She stretches out her legs and pulls the blanket tighter around herself. “Get some sleep, Kat.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have lots more League fic posted here -- http://swapbats.tumblr.com/tagged/league%20of%20legends !


End file.
